


i laugh at the concept of life as a simple result of the sun

by Dialux



Series: jon snow and his parentage [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Gen, R plus L equals J, Stark family feels, the 'jon snow has the most twisted mind' series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 04:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: “-my mother wasnotLyanna fucking Stark!” Jon exclaimed, before turning and kicking, vehemently at the sofa, enough to leave brown dustmarks on the purple cloth. He turned back to her, lifting a finger threateningly. “I don’t care what you say. But our father would never-never-sleep with his sister, in factI don’t even know why I’m telling you thisbecause guess what, Sansa? You shouldalready know that!”[Sansa tries to tell Jon who his mother is. Jon thinks he’s an incest-baby. Which........ isn’t wrong.]





	i laugh at the concept of life as a simple result of the sun

Sansa closed the door behind Jon.

“Take a seat,” she said, nodding to one of the chairs shoved into the too-small office.

The office space was dominated not by the desk- which was ornately carved, if small- or the chairs- which were little more than cushions glued onto woodwormed-matchsticks- or even the windows- which were large, and looking out onto Winterfell’s large godswood. Rather, there was a ratty couch taking up well over a half of the space.

It was a shade of purple that made Sansa’s eyes water whenever she looked at it, but her father had kept it for all of his twenty-odd years of governance and not a person had beaten his polls before or since so she was guessing that there was some lucky mojo in its silver tassels.

Jon, now, seemed to be unable to look away from the couch.

Sansa couldn’t actually find it in herself to break his horrified stare. Not when she knew what she’d have to tell him in a minute.

“I’d’ve thought you’d throw it away,” he said finally.

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got enough problems in life without trying to fit that monstrosity through the door.”

“Robb didn’t offer to help?”

Which was... true. Robb  _had_ offered, and Sansa had just nodded and brushed him off in those first few weeks, and there hadn’t been any discussion about it after. She thought she rather liked the office this way anyhow, now- it’d grown on her, the lack of space and the over-loud screams that filtered in during the afternoon when the kids played. It also threw people off their game, seeing Sansa’s office- pretty, southron Sansa, who’d loved her glass offices and miinimalist furniture- dominated by a couch that looked like a junkie’s dream gone wrong. 

She shrugged instead of answering, and nodded to the chairs again. “You’ll probably want to be sitting down for this bit.”

“Dad leave money for me after all?” Jon sounded like he was japing, but Sansa didn’t know him well enough to know if he actually was, or if he was the kind of guy who ate his bitterness in the morning along with jam and margarine. The men she’d known down south would have cut all ties with home if their fathers didn’t give them a piece of the pie, bastard or no. Jon, according to all the stories Sansa’d heard from Arya and Robb, hadn’t seemed to care.

“Something like that. Sit.”

“Listen, if Robb put you up to this-” he paused, lifting a hand to rub along the back of his neck. “I really don’t need it, Sansa. The cash, I mean. I appreciate it for sure, but. I’m making my own way.”

“If Robb wanted to shove money down your throat, he’d have done it already.” Sansa crossed her arms. “This isn’t about him.”

“Then I can handle it standing, right?”

 _Stubborn bastard._ Sansa thought she’d much rather just toss her drink at him and walk away, out of the room, out of his life. She didn’t know why she had to be the one to get her father’s old rooms, or her father’s old diaries, or her father’s old secrets.

Arya was Jon’s friend, and Robb was Jon’s  _best_ friend, and somehow neither of them had ever found out. Sansa’d read the old books, and she knew the truth now, and she knew how much this truth meant to Jon as well. It was Sansa’s duty to tell him, when nobody else in all the world had been willing to do so.

Life sucked a lot, sometimes.

There was just something about him that seemed to bring out the worst in Sansa and something about her that brought about the worst in Jon, too. They snapped and shouted and slammed doors more than Sansa and Arya used to do in the heights of their teens- and that was when they weren’t ignoring each other.

“Sure,” Sansa muttered, before walking over to the desk and pulling out the bottle of maraschino she’d had hidden in there since she’d first walked into Winterfell. One drink, that was all she needed. And then she could deal. She lifted an eyebrow at him right before taking a sip. “Want some?”

“Sansa,” he said, quietly. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Alcohol gave her the courage that she hadn’t had for weeks, to say the words out loud.

“I know who your mother is.”

There was a long pause, and then: “Oh, do you?”

Jon sounded fucking  _patronizing._ Sansa almost bit her tongue with the sudden swirl of rage. “Yes. Name was Lyanna.” She picked up the diary with the damning statement and all but threw it at him. “Lyanna Stark.”

“How many drinks have you had?” Jon asked, instead of looking startled, or scared, or relieved, or half a hundred other emotions that might have made more sense than  _concern_  on his idiotic face.

“None. Apart from this, I mean.” Sansa waved the bottle of maraschino around, admiring the pretty green glass. “And it isn’t enough. I’ve been drop-dead sober for the past two weeks trying to keep this secret, I think I’ve sacrificed enough.”

He closed his eyes. “Sansa,” said Jon, slowly, “did Robb put you up to this?”

“Answered that already. Answer hasn’t changed.”

“Arya, then.” He placed the diary on the desk and slowly pushed it back towards Sansa. “What’s she paying you?”

“A fucking therapist’s bills. I’m not joking, Jonny.”

“You say that name with a straight face-”

“-the fact that I can look at you and speak with a straight face is an  _accomplishment,_ I agree-”

“-my mother was  _not_ Lyanna fucking Stark!” Jon exclaimed, before turning and kicking, vehemently at the sofa, enough to leave brown dustmarks on the purple cloth. He turned back to her, lifting a finger threateningly. “I don’t care what you say. But our father would never-  _never-_ sleep with his sister, in fact  _I don’t even know why I’m telling you this_ because guess what, Sansa? You should  _already know that!”_

There was another, longer beat of silence, in which Sansa could only stare at Jon, horrified.

“Your mind,” she said, after a full minute of gazing into an abyss of nightmares she’d probably never recover from, “is quite possibly the most twisted thing I’ve ever seen.”

“What-”

“The question you were  _supposed_  to ask, _Jonny,_  was ‘ _who’s my father, then,’_ not assume yourself to be an- an incest baby.”

He paled, looking slightly better, and, simultaneously, sicker. “So you weren’t, like, joking?”

“Come to think of it,” said Sansa, more for the pleasure of making Jon squirm than for anything else, “you actually might be an incest-baby. If the rumors of the Targaryens are true...”

“What Targaryens?”

“It didn’t come from your mom’s side, maybe, but apparently dear old daddy was a-”

“What. Targaryens.”

“Your father,” Sansa replied, squaring off against him. “Your mother’s Lyanna Stark. Your  _father-_ is Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Oh,” said Jon, before slumping onto the sofa behind him, legs collapsing. “That- makes a lot more sense.”

“I’ve had it burning up inside for days. Arya thought I had gas.”

He snorted, but it trembled at the edges. “Don’t do well with secrets?”

“Thought I should tell you first. I don’t tend to do well with keeping secrets that I have to tell soon.” She shrugged easily. “Didn’t sleep well either, which... didn’t help.”

“Oh, did this information have an effect on you as well?” he demanded, lifting his head to glare at her again. “Sorry if I don’t really find myself altogether sympathetic, Stark.”

Sansa sat next to him, slowly. “Well,” she said, “I do think I’ll have nightmares about Dad being all gross with his sister, so- it’s not just two days’ sleep you’ve ruined. If that makes you feel better.”

He leaned back. “I hate you a lot.” Jon waved his hand, and then pressed the fist against his eyes, bruisingly hard. “Now I have that in my head as well, thanks a  _lot,_ Sansa.”

“Anytime.” She nudged his shoulder, but Jon didn’t react, didn’t even seem to realize it.

“Everything’s going to change now,” he mumbled into this fist. “If I’m not a Stark- I mean, yes, people told me I wasn’t, but-”

“What, you think Arya and Robb’ll let anything like that change who you are?” Sansa threw an arm over his shoulder and dragged him closer. “Let me tell you one thing, Jon Snow. You remember that time you spent a month stealing flour from the kitchen so you could paint yourself as a ghost just to scare the ever-living shit out of me and Arya and Bran and Rickon?”

“Vaguely,” he said, peeking at her through his fingers. 

Sansa leaned back, letting herself smile easy for the first time in two weeks. “Once you’ve committed to month-long pranks on people, you’re a part of that family. No take-backs after that.”

Jon didn’t smile easy, never had, never would.

But when he did- even with all the worry he’d ever had in his life, even with pain and grief mixing together, even half-hidden under his arm- Sansa didn’t think she’d ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on my [tumblr!](dialux.tumblr.com)


End file.
